Bitterroot Blues

by Paul Moomaw

  “So you’ve changed your mind about Arden Marks?” Kouris said.

  “Let’s just say that your client will be even easier to convict, and I get paid for convictions.” Drake said.

  “Man, that’s cold,” Arceneaux said.

  Rentz chuckled. “Barbara plays good poker, too,” he said. “Fact is, she did change her mind about Arden when she got a good look at Crisp.” He slugged Arceneaux lightly on the arm. “You done good, Bud.”

  Kouris spread his hands in acceptance of the situation. “Is there an offer in here somewhere?” he said.

  Drake nodded. “We have three chances to convict your client, and we can get the death penalty on all of them. You know that.”

  “That’s debatable,” Kouris said.

  “Bullshit,” Drake replied. “Two innocent young women, one of them pregnant? Give me a break.”

  “Then what?” Kouris said.

  “If your client is willing to confess to the murders, all of them, we will take the death penalty off the table.”

  “Some deal,” Crisp muttered. Kouris place a hand on his shoulder and looked at Drake. “Can we have a few minutes alone?” he asked.

  Drake nodded, turned off the tape, and rose from the table. She came into the observation room and closed the door behind her, then took a deep breath and expelled it noisily.

  “Think he’ll bite?” Rentz asked.

  “Nobody likes to die.” Drake looked at Arceneaux. “I hate to admit that even a temporary private eye amounts to anything, Sam, but you were a real help.”

  “Keep it up,” Arceneaux said. “I love flattery. You going to release Arden even if Crisp keeps on denying everything?”

  Kouris walked to the observation window and tapped on it. Drake nodded at Arceneaux and returned to the other room.

  Kouris sat down and waited for the others to take seats.

  “Are you willing to look at second degree,” he asked.

  Drake mulled the question over for a few moments. “If I were, your client would still have to receive a maximum sentence, with recommendations against early parole.”

  “Sentences to run concurrently, not consecutively?”

  Drake nodded and spread her hands in assent. Kouris looked at Crisp, who stared back and then nodded.

  “I think we can have a deal,” Kouris said. He motioned to Crisp.

  Drake held up a hand. “Wait,” she said, and turned on the tape. “Okay. We don’t need every detail right now. You can save that for a formal statement. I just need enough to be sure I’m not wasting my time here.”

  “Okay,” Crisp said. “Where do I start?”

  “Laura Hooters,” Drake said. “Did you kill her?”

  “Yeah,” Crisp said. He sat for a long time, tugging at an earlobe. “I killed her, and I felt shitty about it.” He looked pleadingly at Drake. “I panicked. I saw her talking to that son of a bitch Arceneaux, and I knew what she was probably telling him.”

  Drake held up a hand. “What was she telling him?”

  Crisp seemed to swell up, holding his breath, and then collapsed. “When Samantha was younger, she was so beautiful, and she kind of led me on, you know? We had an affair, and she wound up getting pregnant.”

  “Had an affair, my ass,” Arceneaux said from behind the window. “The son of a bitch started molesting her from the day he moved into the house.” Rentz reached out and tugged his arm. “Doesn’t matter right now.”

  “What happened to the baby,” Drake asked.

  “She went away to have it, and then brought it home.”

  “That’s Bryce?”

  Crisp nodded. “Later, she decided it was all my fault, and turned against me, and I knew she was starting to talk.” He looked around the room. “That could have ruined me. Can you understand that? A small businessman in a small town? When she was killed that made it worse, because I knew if people found out about Bryce, they would figure I finished off Samantha.” He paused and smiled weakly. “And I was right, wasn’t I? So when I saw that shithead Arceneaux with Laura, like I said, I panicked, because I knew she and Samantha talked about everything. I wish I hadn’t, but there it is.” He looked at Drake again. “And you’re right about one thing. I could kill myself for using my son’s bat. That was almost worse than what I did with it.”

  Crisp stopped talking again. He seemed to sink into himself, not be entirely present in the room.

  Drake waited for several moments, then said, “You need to take a break?”

  Crisp seemed not to hear her at first. Then he shook his head quickly and looked across the table at her. “I want to get this over with,” he said.

  “Okay,” Drake said. “Tell us what happened at the Double Pine.”

  “Corey Wallace and I were doing a little business together. You knew that already.”

  Drake nodded and waited for Crisp to go on.

  “After a while, I realized he wasn’t being straight with me. I was supposed to get twenty percent of the action, and he was screwing me on the money,” He looked from Kouris to Drake. “The guy was a crook.”

  Drake put her hand to her mouth, clearly stifling a laugh. Crisp looked offended.

  “Look,” he said. “I was breaking the law, I admit that. But I’m not a crook. Wallace was a crook. You couldn’t trust the son of a bitch for a minute. And then he started claiming I was stealing stuff from him and selling it on the side. What a hypocrite. I mean, sure, I was taking a little for myself, especially after I realized he was stiffing me on the money. But he made a huge deal out of what he called disappearing merchandise, and then one day he said our arrangement was over, that he was finding someone else.”

  Crisp paused again and scratched his head. “I went out to the Double Pine to try to talk to him, get him to change his mind, but he wouldn’t budge.”

  “So you killed him.”

  “Yeah. You need to believe that I didn’t really mean to. I guess I got too angry.”

  Kouris leaned in. “Maybe we can think about manslaughter,” he said.

  Drake gave him a look and turned back to Crisp.

  “What about Samantha? Did you kill her to shut her up about Corey Wallace, or did you just get lucky and find her there where you could end that little problem, too?”

  Crisp sat for a long time, then took a deep breath. “I did not kill Samantha,” he said.

  “Come on, David,” Drake said. “She didn’t beat herself to death and jump into that hot tub without a little help.”

  “I can’t confess to something I didn’t do,”

  Drake glared at Kouris. “Did you know this was coming?”

  Kouris shrugged and looked helpless. Drake stood up.

  “This interview is over. Any deal is off. Maybe you can take your client off somewhere and talk some sense into him.”

  “Wait,” Crisp said. “Listen for a minute.”

  Drake slowly sat back down, reluctance clear in her expression.

  “I’ve confessed to all this other stuff,” Crisp said. “Why would I lie about Samantha?”

  “I gave up a long time ago trying to figure out why people like you lie,” Drake said.

  “You know why I wouldn’t have killed Samantha?” Crisp went on. “Because Bryce worshipped her, is why. When he found out she was dead, he tried to kill himself. He took an overdose. And whether you want to believe me or not, I would never have done that to him, no matter what I thought about Samantha.”

  Drake shut off the tape recorder. “We’re not getting anywhere,” she said.

  “What if I can tell you who did kill Samantha?” Crisp said.

  Drake gave Crisp a long, skeptical look, then shrugged.

  “I’ll listen for another five minutes,” she said, and switched the tape back on.

  “Like I told you, I went to the cabin to talk to Wallace, and he wouldn’t listen. He laughed at me. He even hinted that if I gave him any trouble he knew people who could handle the problem. That’s the way he put it. Handle the prob
lem. That’s when I hit him. I don’t know for sure that I intended to kill him even then, but he actually died kind of easy.”

  “Where was Samantha?”

  Crisp shook his head. “I don’t know. She might have been in another room. I swear I didn’t see her, not then.”

  “You saw her later?”

  “Yeah. Let me finish. I realized Wallace was dead, and I was sort of in a funk, thinking what do I do next, you know? Then I heard a somebody pull up outside. I shut off the light and then took a look out the window. There was a truck, and this guy got out of it and started walking toward the front door. He stepped up onto the front stoop of the cabin, and I didn’t know what he was up to, so I got out.” He stopped and looked at his attorney, who nodded for him to continue.

  “There’s another door that goes out to the deck with the hot tub. It has a wall around it, for privacy I guess. I went out that door and got over the wall.”

  “Then what?”

  “I was afraid to get into my truck and start the engine, so I left it there and started walking. I’m not sure how long I walked, but finally I went back to the cabin. The truck was gone, and the guy was gone, so I went back inside to make sure I hadn’t left anything that could get me in trouble. Wallace wasn’t where I left him, and the door to the deck was wide open. I was pretty sure I had closed it, so I went out to take a look.”

  Crisp stopped again. He rubbed his eyes and uttered a low groan. “I saw someone in the hot tub, and went over. It was Samantha.” He looked up again. “She wasn’t there when I left the first time, I swear.”

  “So you decided she needed a little company and dropped Wallace into the hot tub, too?”

  Crisp shook his head. “No. He was already in the hot tup, right there with Samantha. I took one look and ran like hell.”

  Drake pursed her lips. “This isn’t working for me. If I remember, you were going to give me the person who killed Samantha. All you’ve told me is that some mystery man showed up and all of a sudden there were two dead people instead of one, and you don’t know a thing.”

  “He wasn’t any mystery man,” Crisp said. “I know him.”

  Drake waited in silence. So did Kouris.

  “It was Samantha’s creepy brother-in-law, Elbert,” Crisp said.

  Chapter 39

  Arceneaux drove back to Missoula with his head still spinning from the day’s events. He was glad Arden Marks was off the hook, and felt elated and vindicated that Crisp was firmly on it; but he remained puzzled about Elbert. He had never had the smallest suspicion of Elbert as a murderer, as unlikeable as he was. It was still difficult to wrap his mind around the idea.

  At home the answering machine next to his telephone blinked a bright red two. The first message was from Larry French. He pushed the button and listened.

  “Hey, Sam. Just calling to say congratulations. You were right and I was wrong. Drop by next time you’re in town and I’ll buy the beer.”

  Arceneaux was surprised to feel a surge of relief. He had not realized how concerned he had been about the distance that had been developing between him and the man who had been one of his best friends since law school.

  The second message was from Matt Hagan, and put the icing on the cake. Hagan had apparently gotten his records back, and was calling to let Arceneaux know that the name on his custom knife’s sales record was Elbert Marks. Arceneaux shook his head and grinned. Everything was falling into place.

  “I claim braggin’ rights,” he said. He picked up the telephone and called Anne.

  “If you’ll drop by Worden’s and pick up a good bottle of champagne,” he said, “I’ll pay for it, and cook dinner, too.”

  There was a long pause, then Anne said, “It doesn’t feel like a champagne evening, but I think we do need to talk.”

  Arceneaux’s stomach twisted. He tried to ignore it.

  “So come on over without champagne. I’ll still cook.”

  “I don’t think so.” Anne said. “Maybe you could meet me somewhere.” He voice sounded very formal, and Arceneaux suddenly felt a chill.

  “What’s going on, Anne?” he said.

  “I can see you about seven,” she replied. “At the Depot.”

  “What the hell is wrong with right here?”

  “Seven o’clock,” Anne said, and the telephone clicked in Arceneaux’s ear. He stared at the handset and shook his head, hearing her voice again, formal and distant, no warmth at all. He hung the phone up and looked at his watch. It was a quarter to six. He walked to the living room window and stared out at the street, not really seeing it. His skin felt weird and his stomach was still churning. He felt like a man who had taken a step on what he thought was firm ground and suddenly found himself falling through empty space.

  When you don’t know what else to do, have a drink, he thought. He marched to the kitchen and took a beer from the refrigerator. He popped the cap and sat down at the kitchen table. Then he put the beer down and got up again. He went to the cupboard where he kept his liquor and wine and grabbed the bottle of brandy. He sloshed a couple of inches into a glass and sat down again. He took a slug of brandy and chased it with beer. He did that again, then waited for the alcohol to hit. Nothing happened, or if it did, he could not feel it through all the other sensations that were running through his body. He finished off the beer and brandy, then got another beer and more brandy and did it again. Then he looked at his watch. Ten to seven. He stood up and swayed a little. He still did not think he felt the alcohol, but assumed it was working on him. It would take a good twenty minutes to walk to the Depot, but he knew he had better not drive. He walked to the front door and opened it to a gust of wind and a swirl of small snowflakes.

  “Coat,” he muttered, and went to his bedroom closet. He pulled out a down parka, thought about a hat, and decided the hood on the parka would be enough if the wind got bad. He put the parka on and went back to the front door, then turned around again. “Gloves,” he said. “Ought to wear gloves.” He went back to the bedroom and dug through a dresser drawer until he found a pair of old ski gloves. He pulled them on, flexed them, and nodded. Then he returned to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside. The temperature had dropped drastically, but between the parka and the alcohol he felt fine. He closed the front door behind him and started walking.

  The Depot inhabited a large brick building that aspired to elegance, with fancy cornices and tall windows. It had banquet space upstairs, and the main restaurant and bar in separate halves of the ground floor. Ann occupied a corner table next to one of the windows, which she was looking out of as he approached, although their was nothing much to see except the parking lot across the street. A glass of red wine stood at her elbow. Arceneaux reached the table and said, “Hey,” and she turned and looked at him, her face unreadable.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  “Indian boy keeps Indian time,” Arceneaux said, and saw her wince as he removed his parka, draped it across the back of the chair next to hers, and settled heavily onto the seat.

  A waitress who had just delivered drinks to a group three tables away veered toward Arceneaux on her way back to the kitchen. Arceneaux started to order a beer. He could feel the brandy beginning to work on him, and knew he did not need anything stronger. But then a part of him said, fuck it. He ordered the beer, a pint of Big Sky Powder Hound, and added a bourbon chaser. Then he stretched back in the chair and stared at Anne, who was toying with her wine glass, her eyes averted from him.

  “Getting cold out there,” he said.

  “They said it would,” Anne replied.

  “Cold in here, too,” he said. “Real Alberta clipper, right at this table.”

  The waitress returned with his beer and bourbon. Arceneaux raised the glass to Anne and said, “Here’s to us.” He took a swallow of beer and followed with one of whiskey. “Right?”

  Anne raised her glass without speaking. She tilted it toward him, took a sip, and put it down again.

  Ar
ceneaux stared at her, aware that at some level he felt dread, but mercifully distant, buffered by the alcohol.

  “You wanted to talk,” he said. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “I said we need to talk,” she replied. “Not that I want to.”

  “Same difference.”

  Finally she looked him in the eye. She shook her head slowly from side to side.

  “No, Sam. It’s not the same at all.”

  Arceneaux took another swallow of beer and chased it with more bourbon.

  “Fine,” he said. He stared at the bubbles in his beer, and felt internal bubbles of irritation rising. “What do we need to talk about?”

  Anne swallowed more wine, then took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  “It’s not working,” she said.

  “What’s not working?”

  “We’re not working, Sam.”

  Arceneaux knocked back more beer and bourbon. “Works for me,” he said.

  “It’s not working for me,” Anne said. “It’s not working for you either, not really. You just don’t want to look at it.”

  “I’d rather look at you. I don’t get off on its.”

  “I’m trying to talk seriously, Sam.”

  “Okay,” Arceneaux said. “So you want to end things.”

  “I don’t want to. I think I have to.”

  “Bullshit,” Arceneaux said. He paused, gave her a hard look. “What’s his name?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The new guy. The replacement.”

  Anne slammed her glass onto the table hard enough to slosh the wine and spill it.